Playing for Ivan Galamian (Ch.4 Pt.2)

After about a half hour of warming up, there was a firm knock on the door. Ivan Galamian, a tall man with baggy eyes that drooped like a bloodhound, stood and motioned for me to follow him. He shuffled to the adjoining room which was his studio. I tagged behind with the violin and bow tucked under my arm.

Ivan Galamian's voice was low and quiet with a thick, Russian accent.

"Vot you vant play?" he said as he sat down in an armchair.

I stared at the old man, trying to assess whether it was a wart or mole under his lower lip.

"Vot you play for me?"

"Mozart."  

"You how old?"

"Eleven."

 An antique wall clock ticked loudly. I waited for Mr. Galamian's instructive.

"Zee Mozart," he said, finally.

I began to play the first movement. By this time I felt as if knew the Mozart Concerto in my sleep. 

Mr.Galamian remained silent throughout the exposition. Suddenly, with a wave of his hand, he gestured for me to stop.

"Vot etudes you bring?"

"None." I lowered my violin and stared at my feet.

"Scales?"

I drew a blank. With great effort, Mr. Galamian rose from his chair and placed Kreutzer Etudes on the music stand. He licked his hairy forefinger and opened the thick book.

"This for bow arm," he said. "Needs vork."

I began to sight-read. The etude sounded familiar. I had heard comedian Jack Benny play it on television.

Ivan Galamian tapped a pencil on the music stand. "Enough, good little girl. I vill speak vis parents now."

After putting my violin in its case, I followed Mr. Galamian through the long corridor, and into the spacious kitchen where my parents sat with Mrs. Galamian over a pot of tea.

They looked up at Ivan Galamian in amazement. I thought they might levitate from their chairs. Mr. Galamian gestured for them to remain seated.

I went to sit next to my mother, and Mr. Galamian pulled up a chair by his wife. The kitchen felt oppressive as we awaited the pedagogue's verdict.

  ♪ ♩ ♪

"Your daughter—very musical," said Mr. Galamian. 

"Is she ready to study with you, Mr. Galamian?" my mother chirped.

Silence. The old man was hard of hearing.

"Would it be possible for Marjorie to study with you?" she enunciated.

Mr. Galamian weighed each word as he spoke. "She has clear mind—" 

"What my husband means," said Mrs. Galamian, "is that an uncluttered mind is a clean slate."

"She must vork on bow technique," said Mr. Galamian, tapping his right arm.

"Oh yes," my mother agreed. "I've noticed a difference with your pupils in that respect, Mr. Galamian. They look so graceful when they play. You're a—a miracle worker!"

 

The Galamians spoke of their summer camp, Meadowmount. The camp was actually a school, located in upstate New York near the Adirondacks.

"It's a very disciplined environment," said Mrs. Galamian. "Meadowmount is primarily geared for older students. But we do accept gifted children."

Mr. Galamian muttered something unintelligible to his wife, as though his mouth was full of jelly beans.

"Oh yes," continued Mrs Galamian. "Ivan suggests that your Marjorie begin her studies with one of his assistants."

A look of disappointment showed on my mother's face. "But Mr. Galamian. Why can't Marjorie study with you?"

Mr. Galamian shook his head slowly. 

"He means not yet," said Mrs. Galamian. "Ivan has about one hundred and fifty students, and your daughter is too young. But don't feel bad. You know, Mr. and Mrs. Kransberg, Boss is so busy that after we were married—by none other than Norman Vincent Peale—I expected to go off on a honeymoon, like all blushing brides get to do." She giggled to herself. "But instead, you know what happened? There was a student waiting on the steps! Boss taught on the day of our wedding like every other day."

My parents laughed.

"But Meadowmount will be a fine start for your daughter. And from there, she'll be admitted to Juilliard," said Mrs. Galamian.

"Really?" my mother sang.

"Absolutely. But I should warn you that some students refer to Meadowmount as boot camp."

"Boot camp?" my father asked. His eyebrows dipped.

"Labor camp," said Mrs. Galamian. "We work those students hard. Don't we Boss?"

 "How many weeks?" my mother asked.

"Two whole months. Practice sessions are five hours, six days a week with one hour private lessons, chamber music classes, and numerous recitals. It's intensive. But the students leave Meadowmount transformed into serious artists."

"Our little Marjorie has never been away from home without us," said my father, scratching his chin, and staring across the table into my eyes. "Eight weeks can seem like a long time for a child."

 I had never been away from home before, and I could feel my stomach tie itself into a knot.

"Well, you can visit on Sundays, Mr. and Mrs. Kransberg. That's a day of rest for most campers. And I'll have you know, Marjorie," Mrs. Galamian said, as she reached to pat me on the head. "Sunday mornings, I cook the hotcakes myself. Boss tells me they're award-winning. Why, I've caught a few campers helping themselves to third and fourth helpings."

"What a phenomenal experience," my mother said. "And just think. She could get into Juilliard, too, like the young violinist, Lynn Chang. But—" she closed her eyes deep in thought. "How will we break the news to Mrs. Scriven?"

On the Way to the Galamians (Ch.4 Pt.1)

After my debut with the Boston Pops, my mother decided that it was time to leave Sarah Scriven for a teacher with more clout. The next step, in the climb to success, would be to audition to study with the famous pedagogue, Ivan Galamian in New York City. I would play for him on the sly, without Mrs. Scriven's knowledge. If accepted by Mr. Galamian, my mother would deal with Sarah Scriven later. In the meantime, she could think of a tactic to soften the blow to Mrs. Scriven that one of her prize pupils would be leaving her studio.

There was no room for argument with my mother on this subject. My father did his best to remind her that it was Sarah Scriven who had generously offered extra lessons free of charge, and Sarah Scriven who had been responsible for my debut, after countless solo appearances with various community orchestras and the Crescendo Club. What's more, Sarah was, to my father's eyes, a Yiddishe Mama with a golden heart. But my mother's mind was made up, and she stood determined; Ivan Galamian had the necessary connections to launch a young concert violinist's career, and anything else that Mrs. Scriven might do paled in comparison. Besides, Ivan Galamian was on the faculty of both Juilliard and Curtis, the two most prestigious music schools in the country.

"He's the greatest violin teacher alive," my mother said. "Think of the concert violinists he's produced: Pinchas Zukerman, Michael Rabin, Miriam Fried, and the Cripple—I always forget his name."

"Perlman?"

"Itzhak Perlman. They're all Jewish."

She tilted her head back and looked Heavenward. "Our people have the violin in our blood. Let's hope Ivan Galamian accepts you as a pupil, my dolly. Because if he does, I can almost promise, you'll have it made."

My mother pulled a pink frilly dress from the closet, and laid out a pair of white tights next to it on my canopy bed. She had taken out the scissors a few days before, and given me a haircut modeled after The Little Dutch Boy. "You'll look adorable. And we mustn't forget to show Mr. Galamian this—"

"What?"

She waved a newspaper in front of my eyes. A full page photo of my debut at the Esplanade with the Boston Pops had been published in the "Hamilton-Wenham Chronicle" with the caption:

Young Violinist Takes Boston By Storm.

On the day of my audition with Mr. Galamian, my mother piled pillows and blankets in the back seat of the Oldsmobile, so that I'd sleep en route to Manhattan. We weren't halfway out of the driveway before my father lit a cigarette, and took a deep inhale.

"You have to smoke in the car, John? Margie and I get nauseous from the smell. Don't you want her to have a successful audition? She needs oxygen, not cigarette smoke."

"Look, Furrances," he said, craning his neck as he pulled out of the driveway and sped down Burnham Road. "I gotta have a smoke. Next time, do me a favor. Go without me, only, don't smash up the car."

"Since when do I smash up cars?" Her voice leaped up an octave. "You know, John. I'm a wonderful driver—I haven't once gotten into an accident on the road."

"Ha! If you're so wonderful, why do I get calls from the police?"

"You don't, John. You're making that up." My mother rolled down the window and a blast of cold air hit me in the face. She turned to me. "Your father likes to create stories. Don't pay any attention to him. Lay kepeleh so you'll have strength enough for your audition."

I sank into the pillows and pulled a blanket over my head. Sleep would be preferable to listening to my parents argue. 

Hours later, I awakened to the blaring of car horns, slamming of brakes, and noxious fumes. We were stuck behind a stalled bus in mid-town Manhattan.

"Where the hell am I gonna find a parking space in this spaghetti bowl of a city?" my father snapped.

"Shhhh! You'll upset Margie. Remember, to be in the presence of Ivan Galamian is a great honor." 

"I don't care if he's Jesus Christ—"

 A cascade of swear words fell from my father's lips as he tried to find a parking space on the Upper Westside.

I felt car sick. 

"Mummy, I'm nauseous." I licked my dry lips.

"Now the kid's carsick," groaned my father, and swerved into a lot off Broadway. 

My mother lowered the visor to look into the mirror. She dabbed a coat of lipstick. 

"She's carsick, Frances."

"Margie? No, she's fine. All she needs is to get out of here and away from your cigarette smoke. Feh!"

My mother was right. I felt much better after stepping out of the car and walking along 73rd Street to the Galamian's house.

"This must be it," said my mother in front of the brownstone building. "Imagine all the concert artists who have climbed these very steps to his studio."

She rang the buzzer with determination.

An old woman peeked out from a heavily pad-locked door. After a slight hesitation, she clicked open all the locks. "Won't you come in?"

 "I'm John Kransberg, and this is my wife Frances," said my father, holding his Fedora hat to his chest. On cue, my father could step into the role of a perfect gentleman.

He gave me a gentle shove from the doorway. "This is our little violinist, Marjorie."

"Oh, how do you do," said the old woman warmly. "I'm Judith Galamian." Her salt and pepper hair was stacked in a tall bun. She wore a paisley apron over a simple dress. It felt as if we were visiting my grandmother.

My father took a couple of steps into the foyer. Strains of violin music wafted through the house. "Frances, what a lovely piece." He smoothed his hand over an end table. "It's a Chippendale."

Mrs. Galamian sustained a beatific smile.

"I wish I could say I'm an artist like your husband, Mrs. Galamian, but I'm just an old furniture dealer."

"A very successful business man," asserted my mother. "John owns the company Kransberg's Furniture. Have you heard of it, Mrs. Galamian?"

"Come again?" 

"Kransberg's Furniture," repeated my mother with a puzzled expression.

Mrs. Galamian scanned our faces. The faint sounds of violin playing grew into shrieks.

My mother cocked her head to listen. "You are so fortunate to hear magnificent music from your famous husband's studio all day long."

"You're so very kind," said Mrs. Galamian. "Actually, Boss is in the midst of a lesson right now, but he's been expecting your daughter." She lowered her voice to a little girl whisper. "I always call my husband Boss. You know, I mustn't disturb the artist at work—"

"Of course not," exclaimed my mother. "I'm the exact same way with John. That's how it is when our husbands are busy."

My father folded his arms and snorted.

Mrs. Galamian reached for my hand to usher me away.

"Follow me, dear, to the warm-up room. Boss will come get you when he's ready. Your parents are welcome to keep me company in the kitchen. I'll make a strong pot of tea, and we'll get acquainted. Such  interesting people, your parents. Why, I'm sure we'll have lots to talk about—"

Me sitting on Dad's Oldsmobile

Debut with the Boston Pops (Ch.2 Pt.4)

At  Bessie Buker Elementary, where I attended public school, the principal interrupted the lunchroom for an impromptu meeting with all the school children. Something out of the ordinary had happened.

"I have a special announcement to make," said the Principal, Mr. Stone. "Children, please give me your full attention. Eyes up front." He clapped his hands into the microphone. I was about to bite into the egg salad on challah my mother had packed. It looked delicious with chunks of celery and pickles, although the kids at my table plugged their noses when I lifted the sandwich from my "Peanuts" lunch box.

"We seem to have a concert violinist in our midst. Marjorie Kransberg has been selected to appear as soloist with the Boston Pops Orchestra. She will be performing the Mozart Concerto." And he pronounced Mozart as a New Englander, with the "r" missing. I could feel the blood rush to my cheeks.

"Mozaht was a famous composer, and Mahjorie will play his music on her violin in front of thousands of people this summer at the Hatch Memorial Shell in front of the Charles Rivah."

Chomping, laughing and whispers could be heard throughout the lunchroom. One boy ejected a spit ball from his straw. It narrowly missed my face but landed smack in my lunch box. 

Mr. Stone put the mic down and walked straight towards me. I sipped from the straw of the milk carton, and pretended not to notice.  All the kids stared.

"Mahjorie, your mother is on her way. She has requested that you be dismissed early today, in preparation for your debut with the Boston Pops. She says you haven't practiced the Mozaht in a while, that it's rusty. I'll have you know, young lady, that we're all very proud of you here, at Bessie Buker."

I took a small bite out of the egg sandwich and chewed slowly.

"I told your mother that you'll put Wenham, Massachusetts on the musical map. She agreed."

♪ ♩ ♪

It was a brilliant Saturday morning, with thin wispy clouds in the sky; the perfect day for a concert in the park at the Hatch Memorial Shell. As I sat alone backstage in my puffy white dress, waiting for Mr. Dickson's cue to walk onstage, I wished I could have been any other kid in the world. Anyone who wouldn't have to play from memory in front of thousands of people. I peeked at the orchestra through a crack from the backstage door. Harry Ellis Dickson stood on the podium, waving his arms in agitated, circular gestures. He had assured me that I'd get a signal from him when time for my entrance. 

Weber's Freischutz Overture concluded to wild applause.

Harry Ellis Dickson motioned for me. "Come on, come on," I saw his lips move.
A smiling faced concertmaster grabbed my hand, as I made my way to center stage. "You'll be great," the concertmaster said, and winked. I recognized him from the Boston Symphony concert with Lynn Chang. It was Rolland Tapley.

After a quick A from the oboe to check my strings, the introduction began with the orchestra tutti. I scanned the audience. There were so many people on the lawn of the Hatch Memorial Shell that they blended into a wash of color. I felt better. Not seeing actual faces meant that I could try to pretend there wasn't any audience at all. I closed my eyes. A gentle breeze brushed against me and whispered words spoken by Mrs. Scriven: "Tell a story with your violin, darling. Remember, Mozart's music is operatic."

The orchestra began the spirited introduction with a burst of G Major, and the story began. Our hero, Wolfgang the violinist, wanted nothing more than to play outdoors with friends, and asked his father politely. Leopold, the hero's father, replied: "No, you must practice, practice, practice." Leopold's voice grew darker, more agitato. He counted on his fingers the courts of Kings and Queens awaiting young Wolfgang's appearances, and the gold coins and trinkets to be earned. "Please", begged Wolfgang, as he accelerated and grew into a crescendo. Low tones of cellos and basses leaped to the rescue. Horns blasted in response: "Let him play, let him play. It's a beautiful day." Wolfgang modulated to the key of E Minor: "Papa, if you let me go outdoors now, I'll practice later." Leopold responded in firm staccato: "No, no, no. You have work to do." The strings responded with an ascending chromatic scale: "Why, why, why are you such a stubborn old fart?" Wolfgang pleaded with a flurry of sixteenth notes. Oboes whined. Horns bellowed. Cellos and basses laughed in octaves: "Ha! ha! ha! What silly characters in a ridiculous story. But isn't this fun? Let Wolfgang and Leopold resolve their differences in a cadenza."

Mr. Dickson's eyes grew wide beneath his horn-rimmed glasses. Perspiration dotted his fore-head. I heard the swish of the baton after the cadential trill.
The concerto finished and the audience cheered.

"Bravo! Bravo!" yelled orchestra members, tapping their bows wildly on the music stands. Rolland Tapley laughed as his music fell to the floor.
Mr. Dickson grabbed my hand, as he had with Lynn Chang, and raised it in the air.  He kissed my cheek, turned around to the audience, and reached for the microphone. It hissed and buzzed.

"Let's have an extra round of applause for the parents of ten-year-old Marjorie Kransberg. And Marjorie's teacher, also—the incomparable Sarah Scriven."

A Magic Moment for me with Harry Ellis Dickson

Audition for Harry Ellis Dickson (Ch.2 Pt.3)

Whenever Mrs. Scriven felt confident in a student’s performance caliber, she would contact Harry Ellis Dickson and let him know she might have a potential young soloist. In my case, my mother was convinced that writing a personal letter to Mr. Dickson would be more effective, since she she had spent all those years as a violinist in his Brookline Civic Symphony. My mother wrote explaining that I was now a pupil of Lynn Chang's former teacher, Sarah Scriven.

"Dear Harry," the letter began. "Wait until you hear my little Marjorie. You will not regret hearing her." The words "not regret" were underlined three times. And her letter continued with all sorts of compliments paid to the maestro for his various talents, his encouragement of my mother while she participated in Brookline Civic while pregnant with me, as well as musings about my future. "If only my daughter could be given a chance as soloist. To be a concert violinist is my Marjorie's dream. Who would have thought this would happen? Could it be because she heard music through the womb while I played in your wonderful ochresta (sic)? What do you think Harry? All Marjorie needs is a chance; an opportunity. I'll leave it to you Harry, but remember, you can make her dreams come true! Yours truly, Frances M. Kransberg."  

Harry Ellis Dickson telephoned Sarah Scriven a few weeks after the letter was sent. He had a soft spot for aspiring, young musicians. Besides, child performers were box office sensations. Mr. Dickson agreed to listen to several of Sarah Scriven's students. He was on the look-out for a young soloist, a fresh face, to be featured during the summer Esplanade Series at the Hatch Memorial Shell. But Mr. Dickson made one thing clear to Mrs. Scriven: No parents were allowed to attend the audition, not even Frances Kransberg.

My mother obeyed Mr. Dickson's request, as she had no choice.

Up to the Green Room of Symphony Hall I went with Mrs.Scriven, Elliott Markow (who was my arch rival and closest friend), and his fourteen-year-old sister, RoseAnn. I had watched Harry Ellis Dickson conduct at Symphony Hall with Lynn Chang as soloist, and now I was to play the Mozart Concerto in G Major for him. I wiped my sweaty hands on my dress while Mrs. Scriven tuned my violin. 

After Mrs. Scriven finished tuning, Harry Ellis Dickson threw open the doors to the Green Room and entered with a brisk step. He reached out to Mrs. Scriven for a hug.

"Sarah, Sarah! It's been too long. Who are the marvels I get to listen to today?"

Mrs. Scriven's face lit up. "I have some wonderful talent with me, Harry. Really. You're going to love these kids. All three of them."

 The thought struck me that I'd make an idiot of myself if I had a memory lapse and forgot all the notes of the Mozart. My legs turned to Jell-o.

"This is Elliott Markow and his older sister, RoseAnn. And here's Marjorie."

"Who's on first?" asked Mr. Dickson animatedly. He glanced at his watch and began to pace.

"Marjorie. She's the youngest. Ten years old, right darling?"

I nodded.

"And she's studied with me for—how many years?"

I froze.

"I have to tell you, Sarah," said Mr. Dickson. "I have precious little time. We have a rehearsal on Brahms Fourth with Seiji in an hour."

"Marjorie is a bit shy." She turned to me and coaxed. "Tell Harry how long you've studied with me. He won't bite."

"Th-th-three—"

"Oh darling, don't be scared. It's only Harry."

Mr. Dickson walked towards me and pinched my cheek between his thumb and fore-finger. Up close he seemed shorter. On the podium at Symphony Hall, I thought Mr. Dickson was a giant. 

"I know how difficult it is to play for others, believe me," he said. "In fact, to this day I suffer. Sure, my own violin playing sounds great when I'm alone in the practice room. No problem. I can pretend to be Heifetz. Or better than Heifetz. And I think to myself, Harry, why can't you just play like that on the concert stage? What's the matter with you? Look at Joe Silverstein. One Friday afternoon, just before he was to perform the Bruch "Scottish Fantasy", Leinsdorf found him asleep on the couch. Imagine! But not me. I step in front of an audience and, oh boy, I must lose what, about 30 per cent? Sarah—you know what I mean."

She waved him off. "That's enough, Harry."

Meanwhile, a few passages of the Mozart evaporated from my memory.

"Remember, don't play like a mouse. Be bold," warned Mrs. Scriven before taking her seat on the couch.

I began the concerto with all the confidence I could muster. My cold, numb fingers moved on their own, like obedient soldiers. As I drew the bow up and down, notes that had vanished, reappeared, as if by magic. A little voice inside my head said, Gee, you don’t sound nervous; maybe Mr. Dickson will choose you to be the soloist after all. Mummy and Daddy will be proud. Mrs. Scriven, too. The longer I played, the more my thoughts drifted to assessing what Harry Ellis Dickson thought of my playing. I searched Mr. Dickson's face. He smiled. Then Mrs. Scriven's. She averted my eyes by looking down at the blue and yellow Oriental rug. I glanced at Elliott. Was he picking his nose? My fingers got tangled up and I botched an arpeggio. What had I just played? Was it even Mozart? My hands felt disconnected from my arms, and my bow veered off course in the wrong direction. I made a quick detour to the cadenza, and crashed into the final chord.

Before I drew to the tip of the bow, tears rolled down my face. I felt ashamed. Mrs. Scriven shot up from her chair and threw her arms around me, practically crushing the violin with her large bosom. "You're a human being, darling, not some sort of machine. The greatest artists have off-days. Harry understands, don't you Harry?"

Mr. Dickson nodded agitatedly. "I'll say. Most of my days are off. But you're terrific. Really, young lady. Such musicality, and solid technique."

I cried harder.

"A sheyne punim," he said, and patted my head.

Mrs. Scriven plucked a cotton handkerchief from her pocketbook and dried my tears. "You're right, Harry. You should only see when she smiles—those dimples."

"Who's next?" Mr. Dickson asked abruptly. He looked again at his watch.

Statuesque RoseAnn rendered a note-perfect Beethoven Romance in F Major. Her tone was velvety and smooth, like chocolate fudge cake with vanilla icing. She seemed older than fourteen.

Then it was skinny, golden-haired, Elliott's turn. He played Mozart's Adelaide Concerto. Elliott's confidence must have soared after hearing me fall apart. He didn't play like a mouse. Only I did. More tears ran down my cheeks.

Elliott concluded the Adelaide triumphantly.

"And how old are you?" Mr. Dickson asked Elliott.

"Eleven." Elliott grinned broadly. Done deal, I thought.

"What marvelous pupils," said Mr. Dickson, "each and every one." His left hand rested against his cheek, as if nursing a tooth-ache. Mr. Dickson's eyes darted from one student to the next. "Sarah, you never disappoint. You're an amazing teacher." He muttered to himself, "As if she didn't know—"

"I'm so proud," said Mrs. Scriven. "I kvell. All three should have an opportunity to perform at the Esplanade. Can you give each one a chance, Harry? Please? They're all deserving. What do you say?"

Mr. Dickson paused, then paced around the Green Room. He threw a woolen scarf around his neck, and paced some more.

"Sarah my dear. I really have only one spot for this summer. But I assure you—"

"Only one? But Harry—"

"I'll need the week to think it through. These youngsters are something else, though, I'll tell you. Tough call."

Mrs. Scriven's puppy dog brown eyes teared. She loved her students more than anything in the world, as if they were her own flesh and blood. As I look back, I'm sure it pained Mrs. Scriven to think that for every winner there might be a loser.

Mr. Dickson gave Mrs. Scriven a peck on the cheek, picked up his baton box in one hand, and the violin case in another. "Kinder, don't vorry," he said, imitating Serge Koussevitzky.

Mrs. Scriven waited for him to close the door and sighed deeply. "Well, my dears. It looks as if we'll have to wait a whole week, or at least until Thursday, to find out his decision."

in photo Marjorie and Elliott Markow late 1960s

Harry Ellis Dickson with Lynn Chang (Ch.2. Pt.2)

My mother often spoke about the conductor and violinist, Harry Ellis Dickson. She referred to him as a Bostonian musical treasure. A first violinist in Boston Symphony, he was also music director of the Brookline Civic Symphony, conductor and founder of Boston Symphony Youth Concerts, assistant conductor to Arthur Fiedler of the Boston Pops, close friend to actor Danny Kaye, a raconteur, and an accomplished writer, all rolled into one human being. My mother idolized Mr. Dickson, who everyone called 'Harry'.  "Oh, that Harry," she would say, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "What a sense of humor. I just finished his book, Gentlemen, More Dolce Please!  You know, my dolly, he writes the way he talks. Such wit. When I was pregnant with you, I sat in the back row of the first violin section in Brookline Civic, and you know what Harry would say?"
"No Mummy, what?"
"He'd turn to all the violinists, point to me, and remark 'pregnant women are the most beautiful'. Of course, I didn't look too bad in those days. I kept my hair off my face, in a chignon, and watched my weight during the entire pregnancy. Then, when his buddy, the comedian and famous actor Danny Kaye would come to watch Harry conduct during rehearsals, Harry would seat him right next to me. I couldn't get over it. Danny Kaye was supposed to pay attention to Harry but the whole time he made eyes at me. Danny was a you-know."

"A what?"

"A flirt." She sighed.

It was Harry Ellis Dickson who championed the extraordinary young violinist Lynn Chang, and showcased him as soloist on numerous occasions with Boston Symphony. My mother was all too eager to have me follow in Lynn's footsteps.

"When will my Margie have the opportunity to audition for Harry?" my mother asked Mrs. Scriven one day at a lesson. I was ten years old.

"I'd give it some time, Mrs. Kransberg. Marjorie's not quite ready yet."

Mrs. Scriven had acquired a patient tone of voice with my mother, for I had become Mrs. Scriven's pride and joy. My musical progress had been rapid, and I had won several awards of recognition from the National Federation of Music Clubs performing works of Viotti and Mozart. I was regularly invited to perform in youth concerts throughout the New England region, including as soloist with New Hampshire Philharmonic and Wellesley Symphony Orchestra, and I had performed "Ave Maria" at Linwood Scriven's memorial service. Although I found it exasperating to practice several hours a day with my mother pointing out errors, I enjoyed the distinction of being a prize pupil. Even my father boasted about my accomplishments to his customers at Kransberg's Furniture. He'd arrive home from work with a cigar box full of candy as my reward. "Keep your mother happy," he'd say with a wink.

Impatience reflected on my mother's face at the lesson. "But Sarah, Harry'll remember me from Civic Symphony when I sat there in my ninth month of pregnancy with Margie. He'll get such a kick out of hearing her play." Then, in a conspiratorial whisper. "I had to quit Brookline Civic because I got fenumen with this little one. You know what I mean, Sarah—busy, busy, busy."

"My dear, Mrs. Kransberg. I assure you," said Mrs. Scriven slathering her hands, wrists, and arms with talcum powder but restraining herself to a sotto voce. "I'll let Harry know about Marjorie when the time is right. You need not push. Please, Mrs. Kransberg. Don't turn into a stage mother."

"A stage mother?" My mother looked quizzically. "I could never—"

"But, you know," said Mrs. Scriven, smoothing her white hair away from her face. "As I think of it, I have two tickets for this Saturday evening's Boston Symphony concert. My husband Linwood, may he rest in peace, loved the symphony. We were season subscribers for as long as I can remember. The tickets are not front row, but pretty darned close. Lynn Chang will be performing the Tchaikovsky Concerto with Harry conducting." Mrs. Scriven held a steady gaze in my direction, and narrowed her eyes. "I think it might be useful for Marjorie to hear Lynn. What do you say, darling?"

I looked helplessly at my mother without uttering a word.

 
♪ ♩ ♪

 

"Marjorie. There you are. I was looking all over for you," Mrs. Scriven said, after my father had deposited me on the steps of Boston's Symphony Hall. He forbid my mother to drive into the city at night.

Mrs. Scriven grabbed my hand and pulled me into the venerable, brick building through throngs of people. "Come on, darling. Let's go inside."

Mrs. Scriven handed her tickets to the usher and we stepped into the hall. I had never been in one place with so many seats. Glancing up at the balconies and crystal chandeliers made my head spin. My stomach knotted, as if I were the one having to perform in front of thousands of people.

Mrs. Scriven clomped down the aisle to her seat, and gestured for me to take my chair. She took off her brown fur coat and spread it over her lap, then peeled off her leather gloves, dug into her pocketbook, and sprinkled talcum on her hands. Mrs. Scriven lifted her bifocals from her bag and placed them on the tip of her nose. She licked her fore-finger. Slowly, she began turning the pages of the Boston Symphony program booklet, and lingered on the photograph of her former student, Lynn Chang.

 

Mrs. Scriven pointed to the name Joseph Silverstein in the program. "He's the concertmaster—leader of all those violinists. Important job."

Awkward pause.

"He won the Naumberg Prize, not long ago. Do you know what that is?"

I shook my head, no.

"Well, it's a coveted musical award which establishes international solo careers. Joseph Silverstein could have become a world famous soloist, but instead he chose to be Boston Symphony's concertmaster."

I nodded in agreement.

"And to tell the truth, he's come a long way, that Joseph Silverstein."

I smiled.

"What I mean is—that he keeps improving. Do you understand how vital that is to an artist?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"Marjorie Kransberg," snapped Mrs. Scriven. "The day you open your mouth and say something to me is the day I'll probably drop dead from shock."

 

One by one, a few musicians strutted onto the stage. A beefy violinist sat down in the first violins. He nodded to Mrs. Scriven, and grinned. "That's Rolland Tapley," she said. "Rolland which rhymes with Holland. He's such a sweet man."

A bald cello player took a seat, pulled up the music stand, and stabbed his end pin onto the floor. A horn player shook spit out from his instrument. An oboist swabbed his oboe with what appeared to be a turkey feather. Musicians were fun to watch, like exotic animals at the zoo. As more players made their way onto the stage, the cacophony of  squeaks and honks created a painful crescendo. I looked around at all the elegantly dressed people swarming into the hall, and chewed my thumbnail. I said a silent prayer for not being the evening's soloist.

 

Finally, the magic moment arrived when the house lights dimmed. Audience members applauded as concertmaster Joseph Silverstein took center stage.  He cued the oboist for an  A.

Mr. Silverstein sat down, and twitched his bushy eyebrows. They looked like two caterpillars. As Harry Ellis Dickson strode to the conductor's podium, the orchestra stood up, and Dickson enthusiastically shook Silverstein's hand. "William Tell Overture" broke the spell of anticipation. The overture made me want to gallop away on a horse, march in a parade, or at least perform cartwheels in the aisle. I didn't want the music ever to end. After an eruption of wild applause, the hall quieted. A rustling of Boston Symphony program booklets could be heard, and a few coughs. "Oh look here," I overheard a lady behind us remark. "A child prodigy violinist is about to perform the Tchaikovsky Concerto."

Mrs. Scriven's eyes were glued to the stage. My hands turned clammy. Silverstein raised and dipped his furry eyebrows. The orchestra tuned. A giant wave of orchestral sound crashed and receded.

Lynn Chang charged onto the stage, a small kid with longish hair. Mr. Dickson trailed behind. He lifted his baton in the air, jerked his head, and the orchestra tutti began. The young violinist launched into the third movement of the Tchaikovsky Concerto. Confidence exuded from Lynn Chang's face, as if his performance was mere routine. The Tchaikovsky began slow, and then, like a steamroller, took off. Lynn Chang's left hand whizzed up and down the fingerboard. His violin bow ricocheted off the strings like a spray of fireworks. Sweat flew from Lynn Chang's face and dripped onto his violin. I had never seen anyone wipe his forehead during one bar rest with a sleeve. The audience gasped. I was certain the concerto was about to end, but the music had only reached a cadence. I felt dizzy; my hands gripped the arm rests. Notes spiraled and clustered into fiendishly difficult passages with double stops. How could anyone play so perfectly? As Lynn Chang dug into the final chord, the audience burst into a resounding ovation.

Harry Ellis Dickson spun around, grabbed the soloist's left hand and raised it high, like a champion. As the audience cheered, Mr. Dickson kissed Lynn Chang's forehead.

Finally, Mr. Dickson reached for a microphone. It hissed and buzzed.

The audience quieted down.

"Will the wonderful parents of Lynn Chang please stand?"

A Chinese couple slowly rose from their seats, and smiled with deference. 

I turned to Mrs. Scriven and whispered into her ear. "How did he do that?"

"What?" she asked. The ovation endured.

"How did he do that?" I repeated.

"How did he do what, darling?" Mrs. Scriven smiled warmly, and smoothed my hair.

"How did that violinist, I mean Lynn Chang, play so fast without missing a single note?"

The rest of the concert was a blur. To this day, forty years later, I can't remember the second half of the program. All I could think about that night was the wizardry of Lynn Chang.

My father arrived to pick me up after the concert, impeccably dressed in a gray suit. He stood in the foyer with a cigarette loosely held between his fingers. 

"How was the concert?" he asked Mrs. Scriven.

"It was remarkable."
"You mean, that Lynn Chang's something else, huh? Frances talks about him all the time. She says he's a wunderkind."
"I mean, Mr, Kransberg, that your daughter sat enraptured the entire evening. Watching her face during Lynn's performance was the highlight for me."

My father took a deep puff of his cigarette, and blew out a perfect smoke ring. I knew he liked Mrs. Scriven because the normal edge to his voice mellowed whenever he spoke with her. "May I offer you a ride home, Sarah?"

"No," she said. "I have a taxi waiting."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Thank you for taking such good care of our little Marjorie. She's lucky to have you for a teacher." 

"She's a wonderful girl, Mr. Kransberg. And you know what else?"

"What else?" 

Mrs. Scriven's neck disappeared as she raised her shoulders. "The greatest surprise yet. Your Marjorie can even talk!"

Photo of my mother while she was pregnant with me

First Lesson With Sarah Scriven (Ch.2. Pt.1)

"Sing a scale for me," Mrs. Scriven insisted at my first lesson. My mouth opened but not a sound came out. "She's shy," my mother interjected, sitting off in a corner, furiously knitting.

"She'll have to get over shyness," said Mrs. Scriven. "Singing is an essential tool for understanding music. Besides, of all instruments, violin is closest to the human voice."
"Do it, Sweetheart. Sing for Mrs. Scriven." My mother set aside her knitting needles, reached into her pocketbook, and shook a box of Vanilla Wafers.
A thin, uncertain scale emanated from my lips.
"Not bad," said Mrs. Scriven. "Definitely not bad. You don't have perfect pitch but a good sense for intonation. Now play the same scale with your violin."
Four or five notes later, "Ouch!" Mrs. Scriven's hands flew to her ears. "That was out of tune. Fix it!"
I tried again.
"Look darling. Don't be so easily satisfied. If you're out of tune—you do have ears, correct yourself. The ears lead the fingers, not the other way around."

Mrs. Scriven heaved a long sigh.

"We have a lot of work to do. You play like a mouse."

Mrs. Scriven's voice was shrill. Her studio smelled of talcum and sweat. She sprinkled Johnson's Baby Powder on her hands to smooth them. She leaned forward at the upright piano and scrutinized every note, as if peering into a microscope. Her eyeglasses rested on the tip of her nose.

During our one-hour lesson we went through an assortment of shifting exercises and Wohlfahrt Studies. By the time we got to the Seitz Concerto and a passage of double-stops, my eyes glazed over.  

"Any questions?" Mrs. Scriven asked.

Dazed, I tucked my long, brown hair behind my ears. 

"Comments?"

I stared straight ahead at the music stand. Why did I get stuck with vanilla wafers instead of chocolate ones? At least chocolate-chip cookies would have been better.

"Can you talk?" she hissed.

"She's my baby," my mother said, gently. "I was terribly shy as a child, too. Nobody heard a peep from me when I was growing up. Like mother, like daughter, I suppose."

"Yeah? Is that so?" Mrs. Scriven's voice rose in pitch and dynamic. She whirled around on the mahogany piano stool.

"Tell me, Mrs. Kransberg. Do you always speak for your daughter?"

My mother shook her head. "Of course not."

"Marjorie's mind wanders," snapped Mrs. Scriven.

My mother looked quizzically at me.

"I understand," she said softly, while rolling up the ball of rose and pink yarn. "I assure you, Mrs. Scriven. We'll do better next lesson."

Later, in the car on the way home, my mother reasoned aloud why it was that Sarah Scriven was cranky: number one, being an artist meant that she was entitled to be difficult. Therefore, it was essential to just  accept her "artistic temperament" and not take the outbursts personally. Number two, Sarah never had children of her own. My mother paused, scratched her wig, then continued her analysis. Given that reason, how could Sarah help but become impatient with youngsters? And why hadn't she had children, anyway?

My mother glanced in the rear view mirror to catch my eye. I sat munching in the backseat, and feigned rapt attention. As she talked in circles, I bit into another wafer.

"Not only was Mrs. Scriven's husband too old by the time they were married, an almost thirty year age difference—thirty years, just imagine, Marjorie Jill," she said, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "But back in those days a woman had to choose between career and family. Not like today. And you know what else?"

I wasn't really sure whether my mother was talking to me or to herself.

"What?" I asked, my nose pressed against the window.

A driver honked, swerved, and sped past our car. "For Christ's sake lady, step on the gas!" he yelled.

 Another driver blared his horn, too, and slammed on the brakes. 

I slid down on the backseat, clutching the box of cookies. My mother drummed her fingers against the steering wheel. 

"I know," my mother said, her forefinger pointing upwards. "I should have brought Mrs. Scriven a snack, a nosh. She was probably hungry after a long day of teaching. My little dolly, why else would she get cranky with us?"

Sarah Scriven in the late 1980s

Meet the Scrivens (Ch.1 Pt.3)

What felt like an interminable journey on Route 128, with drivers rolling down their windows to cast spiteful glances, resulted in a crawl into Boston. A final lurch and we were on Commonwealth Avenue, just a few blocks from the Boston Music School. Unlike the somnolent suburb of Wenham, Boston was a cacophony. Cars blared horns as they careened around corners, policemen blew whistles and hollered at pedestrians. Long-haired men with protest signs against the Vietnam War waved two fingers in the air, and shouted "Peace, Man".

"See Margie," said my mother, pointing as we walked. "Over on Newbury Street, is the Berklee College of Music. I studied there for a while, too, in the Adult Program before you were born. Then your father came up with every excuse for me to stop. He said, Frances, you have three children to worry about, and a home to take care of. You're ignoring your responsibilities as a housewife." She shook her head. "I was a young mother those days. Had I known better—" She paused while looking longingly at the row of buildings that belonged to a school.

"My parents were in a hurry to marry me off, I guess. So I became a mother at the age of nineteen." She reached for my hand. "But now your sisters have families of their own, and you know what?"

"What, Mummy?"

"I don't think they need me any longer. To them, I'm a nuisance."

I gave her hand a squeeze, trying to make up for every loss. "No, Mummy, you're not."

She looked at me adoringly. Little tears welled in her eyes. I knew right then and there that I was her last hope.

"I'll channel my energies into you, Sweetheart, and see to it that you have beautiful music in your life. What can your father say to that?"

Behind the double doors of the Boston Music School, a black lady with an Afro sat in the foyer at a large desk. I had never seen a black person except on television. I stared.

"May I help you?" 

"We're here for an audition," my mother declared.

The lady smiled and glanced at me. "What instrument do you play, Honey?"

I looked up at my mother.

 "She's a violinist, and here to play for Mr. Linwood Scriven."

"Are you sure he's expecting you?"

My mother nodded. "Oh yes. I had telephoned the school earlier, and was given this time."

"Very well. Someone else must have been here when you called. Go on upstairs, then—that away." The woman pointed. Her spangled bracelets jingled.

A broad, winding staircase with a dark banister led to Mr. Scriven's studio on the second floor. My mother, clasping my burnished leather violin case led me up the stairs. "I can't wait for Mr. Scriven to hear you play. This ought to prove that his time spent teaching me was not wasted."

She knocked on his door. It creaked open.

There stood a ghostly figure. Mr. Scriven was so frail and elderly that it seemed we might blow him away with our breath. 

"Do you remember me, Mr. Scriven?"

My mother resembled a dancer in her swirly, navy-blue skirt cinched at the waist with a beige, puffy-sleeved blouse. Her thin hair was concealed by a shoulder length brunette wig—the one my father affectionately called the Sophia Loren. Everyone agreed that my mother was beautiful. She had olive skin and almond shaped eyes. Her facial features were delicate and smooth.

Linwood Scriven stared through thick lenses that magnified his blue eyes into jumbo marbles.

"I want you to meet and hear my youngest daughter, Marjorie."  

No response.

"She'll play for you," my mother repeated, louder.

 

My mother's heels clicked against the oak floor. A large bust of Beethoven rested on top of Mr. Scriven's upright piano. Placing my violin case on the piano bench, my mother whispered, "Margie, play the Vivaldi Concerto. Show Mr. Scriven what you can do. He might be just a bit hard of hearing, my dolly, so play strong. It was many, many years ago that I studied with him." 

Mr. Scriven tottered to his rocking chair and sat down. I readied my violin and began the opening bars of the Vivaldi. Glancing at Mr. Scriven, his feet tapped the first motive while I played. He hummed the tutti sections.

"You're sweet," he wheezed, after the movement ended. "An angel." He turned to my mother. "I'll be going away to meet my Maker soon. Will you join me?"

My mother gasped.

At that moment, the studio door bolted open. A large-bosomed, white-haired woman with shoes worn by the Wicked Witch of Oz, landed into the room. 

"What's happening here?" the old woman asked wringing her hands. My mother shot up from her chair.

"I'm Frances Kransberg, a former pupil of Mr. Scriven's. And this is my almost eight-year-old daughter, Marjorie. She's auditioning—" 

"Is that so?" asked the old woman. "I'm Sarah. Linwood's wife. Had I known, I would have auditioned your daughter."

"So you're Mrs. Scriven. I've heard many wonderful reports about your teaching from my friends in Brookline Civic Symphony." 

"You're a violinist?" 

"An amateur. My daughter is the talented one."

My mother turned to me and coaxed sweetly. "Dolly. Play your concerto again. This time for Mrs. Scriven." 

Though it was the last thing I felt like doing. I had no choice but to start over, having been warned by my parents never to argue with either of them in front of others.

 

I hurried to the last bars of the concerto, lowered the violin, and stared at my feet.

Sarah Scriven bent down to my face.

"So, you want to be a violinist when you grow up?"

 I nodded.

"You're a talented young lady. You like to practice?"

"Uh-huh." I lied.

"Because playing the violin takes not only talent but guts, and lots of hard work,"she said.

The unkempt appearance of Mrs. Scriven's whitish hair gave me the giggles. 
"What happened to your front tooth?"

"Fell out."

"Did you get  money for that tooth?"

 "Naturally," my mother ejaculated. "The tooth fairy always brings gelt."

Their eyes met, and they laughed, having found a common heritage in Judaism.

"Mrs. Scriven, don't you have a phenomenal pupil by the name of Lynn Chang? A Chinese boy?"

Mrs. Scriven tilted her head back and sighed. "I did. A major talent, that Lynn. He's off to Juilliard every Saturday studying with Ivan Galamian."

"How about that," said my mother, sucking in her cheek. "I was hoping my little Marjorie could work with your husband, Linwood, or study with both of you together. You know Sarah, I'll tell you a secret." 

My mother's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Of all my violin teachers—and I had many, including members of the Boston Symphony—Mr. Scriven was my favorite."

"How's that?" asked Mrs. Scriven, eying my mother cautiously, as if examining a specimen from the Museum of Natural History.

"Well." My mother paused. "Your husband was demanding but kind, exacting but patient. A mensch. I would've thought—I mean, if he hadn't aged so—that he'd be the perfect teacher for my Marjorie."

"Linwood no longer accepts students," Mrs. Scriven snapped. "He's too frail and his mind is going, as you can see. I was Lin's pupil way back when, and then, well, we fell in love and married. But there's a thirty year difference between us. Obviously, I'm willing to take on new students to pass along my husband's repository of knowledge."

"That would be wonderful," my mother gushed. "You were your husband's prize pupil, Sarah, after all. May I call you Sarah? And, as we speak of lineage, I'm aware that your husband studied with a famous pedagogue but I cawn't remember the name—"

"Linwood was a pupil of the eminent French violinist Henri Marteau, who was a pupil of Léonard, a disciple of de Bériot." Mrs. Scriven replied. "That's what's known as yikhus, or pedigree."

My mother and Mrs. Scriven swapped tales peppered in Yiddish. Their heads bobbed at the tempo of Allegro. I didn't like the guttural sound of Yiddish. As they spoke, Mr. Scriven, alone in his rocking chair had slumped forward. Was he dead?
Mrs. Scriven glanced in her husband's direction. "He's like a child nowadays. We enjoyed our music together all those years; I idolized him. He was so devoted." She took out a handkerchief from her pocketbook and blew her nose. "Did you know that Linwood's favorite composer has always been Beethoven? He loves the Violin Concerto for its spirituality. Beethoven soothes the soul."

"I understand," said my mother, softly.

"Life is a circle, Mrs. Kransberg. So sad—"

"So true," my mother agreed.

"It's settled then," Mrs. Scriven said. "Lessons for your daughter beginning this Saturday."

photo of Sarah Scriven and me